


Sick Leave

by unscriptedemily



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Nurse Roy, Sickfic, YES the angst crept in there alright it WASN'T MEANT TO HAPPEN, he's quite a good one, i'll write that some other time, no actual nurse uniforms tho i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy’s footsteps on the stairs; Ed’s had the suspicion for months, and now he’s fairly certain, that Roy has a sixth sense that alerts him to bring food, painkillers, and long sappy speeches about boundless love and affection whenever Ed’s feeling pathetic and weak and ready to sink into the ground and never, ever come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Leave

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! this is a short sickfic for my best m8 fee, who is v ill and doesn't deserve to be. hope u like it bro! <3333
> 
> uhh i think i should put some warnings just in case some of the content is a bit triggering ??? here we go.  
> \- implied depression  
> \- pills  
> \- implied ptsd  
> \- this is a sickfic so if u get squicked out by like descriptions of illness/what it feels like being ill, then maybe don't read this one  
> \- suicidal feelings (mild, but still, you know, there) 
> 
> I know i dont usually put warnings in, but i think i'm going to start from now on bc i saw a couple of other authors doing it and it seems like a good idea c:  
> (also this used to be titled 'sick day' but then i realised that was a title from a different fic so i had to change it rapidly,,i know it sucks im sorry)  
> THAT;S ALL FROM ME FOLKS,,, ENJOY !

 

 

There’s a slime coated toad jumping his throat every time he swallows; there’s a buzzing in his head and a quiet wave of nausea that won’t leave him alone; everything aches and even though Roy’s closed the curtains as tightly as humanly possible without resorting to duct tape and or sewing the fuckers shut, the light hurts too much for him to open his eyes.

Being ill fucking _sucks._

He sniffs, reaches out from under the mountain of pillows to fumble for the water on the nightstand. The glass wobbles, tips, clinks into the bowl of cold soup (he tried eating some, he really fucking did, but in the end his throat hurt so fucking bad he couldn’t manage more than a few mouthfuls and he despises himself for it) and topples from the table to hit the floor with a gentle thud. The water spills out and spreads into a rapidly darkening pool around the bed, and is it really any fucking surprise that Ed wants to _die_?

Roy’s footsteps on the stairs; Ed’s had the suspicion for months, and now he’s fairly certain, that Roy has a sixth sense that alerts him to bring food, painkillers, and long sappy speeches about boundless love and affection whenever Ed’s feeling pathetic and weak and ready to sink into the ground and never, ever come back.

For the past two weeks, he’s been feeling like that _all the time_.

“Hey, love,” says Roy, softly, and Ed makes a muffled moaning sound that loosely translates to _kill me now._ Without saying a word, Roy bends and picks up the glass, setting it back on the nightstand. “How are you feeling?”

Ed cracks his eyes open just enough to give Roy a withering glare from beneath the layers of blanket and shredded dignity. Oh well. It’s not like he ever had any dignity in the first fuckin’ place, right?

Carefully, Roy sits down on the side of the bed, reaching to brush Ed’s (sweaty, matted, unwashed, disgusting) hair back from his forehead. His hand is so hot it’s like it’s just come out of the fucking fire; Ed thought _he_ was the one with the temperature but all he feels is _cold_.

And sick. And sad. And hungry. And miserable. And pathetic. And-

“Y’r hand is warm,” Ed tells him, but he’s not sure the sentiment gets through because his tonsils have swelled up to the size of beach balls and his fucking nose is fucking stuffed up like a motherfucker.

Roy responds by stroking Ed’s face some more.

“I brought you your antibiotics,” he said, “you left the packet downstairs.”

And it must have shown on his face- on what little of his face that is visible- because Roy’s eyes change from soft to softly Ed-it’s-breaking-my-heart-to-ask-you-to-do-this-but-please in .3 milliseconds.

Ed burrows back under the covers.

“Ed…” says Roy, fingers tugging gently at Ed’s hair, playing with it like it hasn’t been five days since Ed last showered, and Ed curls into a ball.

“’Don’t wanna,” he says into his knees-it’s too hot, now; forget being fucking cold, it’s sweltering. Hot flashes travel down his spine and sweat beads on his forehead; he fucking _hates_ this. The only good thing about having automail is that it’s like an attached ice pack; he rests his forehead on it and the cold temporarily displaces his pounding headache. He sniffs.

“I know,” says Roy, now pulling at the little wisps of hair at the nape of Ed’s neck- and god _damn_ it Roy, that fucking _tickles_ \- “I know, love. I’ll stay with you until they wear off, okay?”

Okay. Okay.

See, the medicine would be good, maybe, if they didn’t remind Ed of every shitty thing that’s ever happened to him.  
They would be good, maybe, if the side effects didn’t include vivid fucking nightmares and fever dreams even more fucked up than usual; they would be good, maybe, if they didn’t make his vision go blurry and his breath go gasping and strange shadow creatures hover in the corners of the room. They would be good, maybe, if Ed’s throat didn’t hurt so fucking bad that swallowing them is just about the shittiest thing he can imagine right now.

Ed’s breath huffs hot against his knees, against the walls of the blanket cave; he can’t stop thinking about how his every exhale is laced with millions of squirming bacteria, that when he inhales again he draws back in the very pathogens he just expelled-

“Should go to work,” Ed mutters, pulling his head back out of the blankets and turning his cheek into the pillows. “Hawkeye’ll kill you if you miss too much just ‘cause of me.”

Roy’s hand is rubbing at his cheekbone again, his laugh ghosts down over Ed’s face, clean and cool and not teeming with germs; Ed squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Ed, love,” says Roy, “No offense to her, but even is Riza comes to the door and threatens me point blank, I still won’t go into the office. You’re not _just_ anything.”

Ed’s cold again, but even as he shivers, his blush heats his face from the inside out; Roy chuckles kind of lightly and the only- the _only-_ vaguely good thing about being so sick he wants to die is Roy. Just Roy. Being here. Leaning down to kiss his forehead, balancing his weight on the mattress with one hand so he doesn’t crush Ed, warm and really, really _good_.

“Don’t do that, dumbass,” Ed says, batting weakly at his shoulder, “you’ll get sick. Go ‘way before I infect you.”

Roy kisses his forehead again, then his cheeks, then the tip of nose, and shakes his head. “I don’t care,” he says, “Besides, I’ve already had it- and I feel guilty for giving it to you.”

His tone is light but Ed can tell by the way he turns his face into Ed’s cheek when he says it that he really, really means it. “That’s stupid,” he says, and starts to heave himself upright, using the automail to push himself up. “Not your fault. Roy. _‘S not your fault_.”

 Roy doesn’t reply; instead, he takes Ed’s shoulders and helps him up, supporting him as he struggles into a sitting position; Ed presses his automail to his temples. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck headaches so much. Fuck headaches so much.

“Okay?” Roy asks. Ed nods, goes to reply, but something catches in his throat and he starts coughing, can’t stop; throat scraped sandpaper raw and he can’t do anything but slump, dizzy and hurting, against the pillows and wait for it to subside. He fucking _hates_ this.

Roy picks up the glass from the bedside table. “I’m getting you some water,” he says, and the concern in his voice is almost too much for Ed. _No, Roy, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m always fine._ “Don’t move.”

Ed squints at him through a haze of pain, fumbling for the fucking antibiotics on the table. Fuck it. He hates being ill more than he hates the side effects- just. “Where the fuck would I _go_ , bastard?” he tries to snarl, but he can’t inject any anger at Roy when all his anger is directed at the universe itself for being such a fucking _jackass._

Roy pauses in the doorway to give him one of those long, lingering looks, all _Ed, I love you_ and _I know, sweetheart_ and _I’m sorry_. Ed watches him go, and waits until he hears his footsteps retreating back down the stairs before closing his eyes and tilting his head back to the ceiling. Fuck. Fuck this. _Fuck_ this.

He’s hot and cold and nothing in between; his head pound like someone’s driving a fucking nail through is skill from the inside out; he can barely _breathe_ his nose is clogged with misery and gunk and his throat is the place where bad dreams go to die.

Fuck. He won’t cry. He _won’t_ ; he’s been through far fucking worse than this and he won’t let a fucking _illness_ make him _cry_ -

Roy, coming upstairs again. That was fast. Ed lets his head fall back down, neck weary and complaining, and opens his eyes to stare at the foil packet of unpopped pills in his palm.

“Here, love,” Roy says, handing him the water, and thank _fuck_ for that because Ed had thought he was going to die without ever getting a drink-

Swallowing hurts, like instead of water it’s acid rain or some shit. Everything hurts. He keeps gulping it down, ‘cause maybe if he drinks enough he won’t feel so fucking _nauseous;_ maybe if he drinks enough his lungs will fill up, too, and then he won’t have to fucking worry about how his tonsils feel like they’ve been rubbed all over by broken glass and volcanic rock fresh from the molten lakes of hell because he’ll be _dead._

“Fuck,” he croaks out, and that hurts like nothing ever has, but, hey, it needed to be said.

Roy climbs onto the bed next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Roy, keep it in your pants, I’m _ill_ -,”

And then they’re both laughing, Ed wincing, clutching his throat even as he does so, and Roy’s saying into the back of his neck through helpless laughter, “No, no, that’s not what I meant at _all_ -,”

Shiny silver foil crinkling in Ed’s fingers; the automail is dull compared to it, burnished and scraped and in need of polishing and he pushes the pills out, one, two round white lozenges bright against the metal. He grimaces. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. Roy pushes his nose into Ed’s shoulder and holds him tighter.

The pills force their way down his throat like they’re coated in a mixture of acid and rusty nails, and he drains the rest of the water, coughing; Roy rubs circles into his back as his head spins, spins, like a dropped coin.

“I’ve got you,” Roy says, repositioning them carefully so that Ed is resting in between his legs, back to Roy’s chest: cradled. Grounded. Safe. Roy kisses the top of Ed’s head. “I’ve got you.”

“The fuck did I do to deserve you?” Ed asks, reaching for the tissue box to blow his nose, throwing it off the side of the bed to join the piles spilling over the top of the bin. Roy hums into his hair, smiles.

“You saved the world, Ed,” he says, and Ed closes his eyes. Here it comes. Sappy fuckin’ speeches. “But that’s not the only thing, of course. Do you want me to read out my list?”

“You-,” Ed breaks off to cough, twists round to glare disbelief at Roy, “- have a _list_?”

“Of course.” _Of course_. That bastard. Ed loves him. “I memorised it, in case this opportunity should arise- I’m eternally grateful that you brought it up, by the way.”

“Fuck _off_ , you’re just takin’ advantage of the fact that I’m too fucking ill to escape your goddamn _sap_.”

“Maybe,” says Roy, “but I don’t think I tell you how amazing you are as often as I should, love.”

“Oh, bull _shit_ , you tell me at least three times a day, you bastard-,”

“Only three? That’s not _nearly_ enough, my love. So, number one…”

 

Maybe ten minutes into Roy’s reel of squishy sappy teeth-rotting schmoop _,_ the antibiotics start to take hold, and Ed starts to drift, closing his eyes and falling backwards, down, down, down into the darkest of dark places-

But Roy’s there, holding him, talking to him, lips moving against his skin so the words vibrate right through his icy shell and into the depths of him.  
 Ed loves him, helplessly, and he never does do anything by halves: everything, _everything_ of him he’s given to Roy. Everything. Roy, who pulls him, step by step, out of the dark and into his arms, and maybe it’s because they’ve both got their more-than-fucking-fair share of _demons_ , maybe it’s because they both know what it’s like to hit rock bottom and just _keep falling,_ maybe it’s because the both of them are hopeless fucking cases but together their broken fucking halves fit together and make a whole.  
  
And no, it’s not all fucking sunshine and rainbows; it’s waking up breathless and choking at three a.m. because you had a nightmare and Roy’s working overnight at the office so there’s nothing but empty sheets and sweat and your own fucking heartbeat pounding itself into the walls of your ribcage; it’s stupid little arguments that turn into spitting lashing fury-anger and it’s the door slamming shut behind you as you sprint down the path and down the street, blood slamming in your ears and you _know_ you’re being childish but what the hell else can you do -?

It’s not all fucking perfect, but what the hell _is?_

Because when it’s good, it _good_ , and after two years it’s more often good than not, and when it’s bad it’s fucking bad, but it’s not hopeless anymore. It’s not the bottomless chasm of separation that it used to be- and even if it’s not, they can’t. They just _can’t;_ trying to live without each other is like- like- it’s like dying. It’s not even living; it’s not functioning, it’s wandering around in the idle of the night because you can’t sleep without him there beside you, it’s Al or Hawkeye looking at you with concerned eyes, it’s the burning kind of desperation you read about in tragedies and Ed knows that Roy used to be terrified of whatever _this_ is, used to think that no lasting relationship could be built from rubble and ashes and blood-

And yet- and _yet_ -

Here they are. Two years older, two years more tightly bound than ever before, and now it’s more often good than not and the bad isn’t bottomless.

So. Progress.

Ed coughs again and Roy strokes his hair and murmurs _I love you_ s into his skin.

He hates being sick, but with Roy here, it’s maybe a little (a lot/so much/too much/Ed is fucking drowning in Roy and instead of struggling all he wants is the ocean) better than before.

Germy tissues and cold soup and all, he’s kinda really fucking glad that Roy’s here with him instead of in the office. Fuck knows what Ed would do without him, if he was.

 

 


End file.
